


The First Time and the Last Time

by EAU1636



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Basically just their canon 1st meeting and mostly canon snooker hall scene, But imagining a different middle between the two scenes, Canonical Character Death, Episode: s05e01 Muse, Episode: s05e06 Icarus, First Meetings, Grief/Mourning, M/M, So yeah just sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27008749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAU1636/pseuds/EAU1636
Summary: How things begin and end between Morse and Fancy.
Relationships: George Fancy/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	The First Time and the Last Time

**Author's Note:**

> "I'll love you till the ocean  
> Is folded and hung up to dry  
> And the seven stars go squawking  
> Like geese about the sky.  
> The years shall run like rabbits,  
> For in my arms I hold  
> The Flower of the Ages,  
> And the first love of the world.  
> But all the clocks in the city  
> Began to whirr and chime:  
> O let not Time deceive you,  
> You cannot conquer Time.  
> In the burrows of the Nightmare  
> Where Justice naked is,  
> Time watches from the shadow  
> And coughs when you would kiss.  
> In headaches and in worry  
> Vaguely life leaks away,  
> And Time will have his fancy  
> Tomorrow or today."
> 
> \- W. H. Auden
> 
> Ummm so obviously I think about this show too much and I had a dream that Morse and George were together and happy but the whole time I knew the snooker hall was coming so I was sad. So I wrote it but instead of fixing it to make it happy like a normal person I just left it sad to exorcise my sadness about it?

What a fucking day. Morse has just headed back from interviewing pompous pricks about The Shadow, a load of bullshit if he’s ever heard one, when he walks into the nick to find his desk already occupied.

Young enough that he’s practically still a kid, a dark flop of hair hanging down over his forehead, seemingly deep in concentration over the paper Morse left on his desk. Not the crossword, of course, some football photo. No doubt imagining himself scoring the winning goal.

Morse just stares at him, and the kid raises his head, gives Morse this open, eager look. Deep brown eyes gaze up at him, expectant and hopeful.

“Is this your desk?” He sits up straighter and gathers up the paper. “Sorry, I was told to... um... wait.”

Thursday hoists him onto Morse easily enough, tells him he can keep Morse company, as though Morse is the sort that ever wants company, as though he isn’t already getting enough bloody company as it is with Strange permanently installed over his shoulder at their flat like some idiotic, relentlessly chummy Big Brother.

And after all, Morse is just surplus now, shoved off onto one pointless task after another, why not give him one more headache to deal with. Christ, the way things go around here this dumb kid will outrank him before long, be sending Morse about on useless errands and looking to him when the phone rings.

Morse would give anything to be on his own. But beggars can’t. When Morse wordlessly grabs his jacket and walks out of the nick, Fancy tags along behind him like a stray puppy.

“Want me to drive?” Fancy asks optimistically from over Morse’s shoulder.

“No.”

Morse holds tight to his last shred of patience, and to the hope that the kid will at least just keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.

* * *

There comes a moment when Morse wonders where George is, because surely he wouldn’t just wait in the car once he’d seen them all heading into the snooker hall. Always so ready to pounce on any excitement, to be part of things, to do his bit. And surely he would have heard...

But the thought ends there. All thoughts end there. Because Morse sees a shoe on the ground, a shoe he recognizes, one he tripped over a few mornings back because George is such a messy git.

Only it can’t be that shoe because George is still in the car.

Morse just stands there a second, in this valley of disbelief, his mind holding desperately to the safety of not knowing, not understanding this thing he’s seeing that he can’t be seeing.

Then his stomach turns inside out, his mouth suddenly dry and sour, bile rising up in his throat and his heart stopping or maybe pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t breathe. Can’t hear or think or move. Everything stops. Time. The whole world.

Then Morse is rushing over but it can’t be. And maybe he says something, some denial, because it can’t be. Because George is fine. They told him to stay in the car. He’s in the car.

And it still isn’t real but he’s shouting for an ambulance because George... Because...

He drops to his knees, one hand on George’s chest, calls out, “George?” Like giving an answer he knows is wrong. Like any second Strange or Thursday will ask him what he’s on about because George is outside in the car. Like any second Morse will turn and George will have walked up behind him, trailing behind like always, permanent as a shadow.

“George?” He asks, still confused, lost and fumbling. “George, can you hear me?”

And of course he can hear him because they’re so close now. Touching. Together. And any second George is going to answer, he’s going to answer and be fine.

Only he doesn’t. He doesn’t move at all. And then Morse is drowning in this frantic, gasping terror. He knows he has to do something, has to undo this, to fix this. Because this can’t happen. It can’t. And they just talked to him, minutes ago, moments ago, and told him to stay in the car.

His fingers are on George’s neck, shaking atop the stretch of skin where he kissed him in the shower last week, the faint outline of a love bite that made George shriek and laugh still just visible. Right there.

Morse is leaning down close enough to see the freckle on the edge of George’s earlobe, the one he likes to nip gently to make George squirm. And those big brown eyes, always so trusting and open, are open now, only he won’t look at Morse. And why won’t he look at him? Why won’t he answer?

He hears himself say George’s name again, desperate and angry, because what the fuck is George playing at?

He’s leaning down over him, head on his chest, the way he does when their bodies fit together, when they are the only two people in the world, when nothing exists but George.

Something sharp pierces through Morse’s mind. Does George still exist?

A vicious, evil, lying thought. Because how could that be? Of course George exists. He’s right here. He’s twenty-three, too young for Morse really, and too sweet, just a stupid, lanky kid with his whole life in front of him.

And he’s everything. He’s the only thing that matters.

George’s hand rests over the hole in his stomach, hopeful and naive, still too young to really believe in endings, probably just waiting for them, thinking that he only need hold out a little longer, that at any moment... until...

Morse is pressing into his chest, harder than he should, because George is such a skinny thing, so breakable really. He’s shouting George’s name, a command. And he doesn’t even know if his hands are over George’s heart, but George is all heart, isn’t he? All enthusiastic energy and ridiculous happiness and so fucking full of life that Morse can’t really remember how he ever lived without him.

And Morse won’t let him do this, because it isn’t even possible. It isn’t fair. He can’t be. He can’t.

Then he feels himself crumple, this horrible wave of knowing, and he’s wrapping his arms around George and pulling George into him, folding over him, to keep him safe. Because George shouldn’t be alone.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed, because nothing matters now but holding George, never letting him go. And then there’s a hand on Morse’s shoulder, steadying and firm.

Thursday is saying something but Morse can’t hear or can’t understand because if he lets go of George he’ll never... He’ll never again... Never...

And then Max is kneeling down beside him, his voice a soothing hum of promises, and Morse knows that George won’t be alone. Max will take care of him. Max always takes care of him, fixes him.

He slowly, gently lays George on the ground, cradling his head and then running his hand down the side of George’s face, fingers slow and trembling. Thinking of every countless time he’s kissed and caressed that face, seen it crinkle into confusion or pout with disappointment or slacken with abandoned bliss or radiate with that dopey, lopsided smile.

And then Thursday’s arm is around him, holding him up, turning him away from the blood and bodies, away from George, away from this last hope of holding on, and leading him out into the empty darkness of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the doom and gloom. Obviously George is actually fine and happily wed to Ronald Box.


End file.
